


Tea with Mrs Turner

by Zarathastra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: D/s relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3780472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarathastra/pseuds/Zarathastra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just meant to be an afternoon of quiet, peaceful gambling and drinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea with Mrs Turner

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I can’t seem to write a case fic to save my life, so this isn’t one. It’s about two elderly ladies growing older somewhat disgracefully. And some other things. Hope you enjoy

Sherlock slammed the street door and leaned against the wall. It was over at last. He hung up his coat and scarf, pulled the crumpled hat out of his pocket and hung it up on its peg, smiling broadly as he gave himself a moment to feel proud of himself. It had taken far too long to wrap up the case this time but still he was pleased. He’d even received one of those rare garbled confessions, before the perpetrator was led away begging Lestrade to get him away from “that nutter”. So he wouldn’t have to spend time explaining things to the gathered crowd from Scotland Yard. Normally it would have pleased him no end to linger and show off to them, pointing out their shortcomings, but things here in the flat would be far more interesting right now.

 “There you are, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said, “where did you get to? I left a casserole for you but it’s probably stone cold by now. I’d stay and warm it up for you but Mrs Tuner’s expecting me for tea and I’m late.” She looked at her watch a little impatiently and Sherlock allowed himself one last deduction for the day. She might have been going to Mrs Turner’s but she wasn’t going for tea, she was going there to watch the racing on the telly, place a series of small bets and have some dry sherry with not a teacup in sight.

 "Is John upstairs?” Sherlock asked ingenuously, knowing exactly where John was. He was right where he’d been left. Sherlock knew that even without being able to see through walls.

 “Yes, but don’t you go bothering him yet. He looked terrible when he came in, said he was going to bed early. He must have worn himself out at that surgery again, looking after all those malingerers and screaming children. And I’m sure whatever clever deductions you came up with today can wait until he’s awake enough to tell you how smart you are. As if you didn’t already know it,” she added a little tartly.

 Sherlock smiled. Her affection for John couldn’t be denied. In fact he might actually find himself fortunate enough that she would turn her stifling attention away from him now and annoy John instead. That, he thought, was definitely something to smile about.

 “Make sure he has some dinner would you Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson told him. “And have some yourself,” she added, moving toward the front door. “I won’t be late.”

 ~~~

  

Of course Mrs Turner pointed out that she was late.

 “You’re late, Martha,” she said.

 “Sorry, but I was waiting for Sherlock to come back.”

 Mrs Turner pursed her lips. “How old are those ‘boys’ of yours anyway?” she chided. “Couldn’t they make their own dinner once in a while?”

 “I know,” said Mrs Hudson. “I spoil them a bit. But John’s so tired from the clinic and Sherlock just forgets not everybody can stay awake for four days without sleeping a wink...”

Mrs Turner sighed. “Well, you’ve come for a little break from all their nonsense, so sit yourself down and I’ll get the tea.”

When she said ‘tea’ of course, she meant the food. There was no teapot on the table. Not even a stray teabag in a mug. Instead she returned with a large bottle of sherry and two glasses.

“I’ve got salmon paste sandwiches,” she said. “And Scotch egg salad. And there’s a Victoria sponge for afters.”

“Lovely,” said Mrs Hudson. She was still fretting about John and wasn’t really in the mood to hear Mrs Tuner brag about her baking skills again but it was only polite, after all. “How do you get those sponges so light? What’s the secret?”

Mrs Turner smiled. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I get them from Asda. I never did learn how to make sponge cake. And today just wasn’t the day to try to learn how.”

She crossed the room to turn on the television. “Can you get the paper, dear?” she asked as she used the remote control to hunt for the Racing Channel. She’d already folded the newspaper to show today’s race card at Aintree.

 “Ooh, look!” Mrs Hudson said excitedly, “’Baker Street’, that’s got to be a good omen.”

 Mrs Turner sighed. “I’ve told you about co-incidence before, Martha. That’s why you should never gamble, dear. That betting shop sees you coming. Look, ‘Pipe Band’ is running in the same race. He’s got good form.”

“Well, you back your horse and I’ll back mine and we’ll see who comes out on top,” Mrs Hudson said firmly, holding back the tart remark about how much Mrs Tuner seemed to know about horse-racing.

Mrs Turner said no more about it but she thought that Martha would live to regret her sentimental choice. “Can you place the bets, dear, and I’ll set up for tea,” she said.

Mrs Hudson was a little put out but she used Mrs Turner’s landline to place their bets then sat in the comfy chair by the electric fire and waited to be proved right.

To her delight and Mrs Turner’s annoyance they had a winner in that first race. Well, Mrs Hudson did. ‘Baker Street’ romped home, leaving ‘Pipe Band’ in his dust. Martha smiled at her friend and didn’t say “I told you so.” And she consulted the newspaper to pick out the next sure-fire winner. ‘The Violinist’. Perfect, she thought, and picked up the phone. “Shall I place another bet for you, dear?” she asked sweetly, “or would you like to pick another one for yourself?”

~~~

Sherlock may have left John behind, as usual these days, but he hadn’t been a complete bastard. Not from his own point of view, at least. “You look a little under-dressed, John,” he’d said. “We’ll soon fix that.”

Well, of course he was under-dressed. Sherlock had ripped all his clothes off him again. Living here was costing him a small fortune in clothing.

~~~

Before Sherlock left for Scotland Yard John had found himself on his back on top of Sherlock’s bed, his arms placed at his sides, his legs spread just that little bit too far apart making him ache in every muscle. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he’d come to expect it, even to like it, being displayed like that for Sherlock’s perceptive gaze. It made him simultaneously uneasy and turned on and somehow like less of a man and more of a plaything. But if this was the price he had to pay to keep Sherlock here, he reasoned, he would pay it. Besides, he wanted to come, so he was hoping Sherlock would hurry things along this time.

Some hopes.

Sherlock had put one of the larger and more intense vibrators into John in an attempt to keep him at least partly entertained while he was gone. It filled John’s passage snugly but Sherlock had spoiled what had seemed a generous gesture a second later by producing that wicked black leather ring of his.

Sherlock loved it; he’d made that clear by the number of times he brought it out with a flourish in front of John’s face to let him know what was coming, but surely, John thought, he didn’t have to have it fastened around his sensitive bits like this quite so often, did he? It fitted perfectly of course, settled in a frustrating clutch around the root of his penis, separating his balls and letting him know in the bite of the leather that there would be no coming until Sherlock returned, maybe not even then, if experience was anything to go by.

“Stay just like that,” Sherlock had instructed him rather smugly, John thought, as the familiar gag was fastened around his face and secured at the back of his head. “I won’t be long; I’m needed by Scotland Yard. Don’t worry,” he said on the way out, as if he wasn’t needed right here. “I’ve set the alarm on my phone, so you won’t be alone for too long. In case of emergency, I’ve left that little silver bell on the table beside your right hand. If you experience any difficulties just ring for Mrs Hudson. She and Mrs Turner will most likely be listening at the wall anyway, so I’m sure they’ll come to your rescue at the slightest noise, so do be careful how you react to the sensations you’ll be feeling.”

John scowled at Sherlock’s feral grin and said something rude about budgies in cages, which came out as muffled garbage as the presence of the gag didn’t allow for translation.

“See you later, John,” Sherlock said on the way out, “have fun.”

~~~

Alone in the room just a few scant hours later John had been panting through his nose with pleasured frustration, voice muffled, and because there was nothing else to do he was going through those exercises for the muscles Sherlock had so painstakingly and painfully taught him. It was designed as a workout for his arse that would benefit both of them in time, or so the detective had told him. John had never asked him where he learned it from; he didn’t really want to know. He flexed around the vibrator, feeling a sudden jolt of delight travel up his spine. The ribbed toy was almost as pleasurable as having Sherlock here with his living cock pushed deeply inside him. It was making him moan; it was making him hot, the same way he felt when Sherlock was here, only without the snide commentary on his performance and the frustrating palm slapping his flesh every now and then.

Sherlock’s bed was comfortable and the room was warm and John basked in the cosiness. Sherlock never left him to get cold. John was grateful for that. After Afghanistan he had never managed to completely acclimatise himself to London’s cooler weather. Even in summer he was never without a jumper or knitted waistcoat, or a jacket that was heavier than the rest of the population seemed to be wearing. It would most likely take many years for him to feel comfortable in his own country again, in the alien skin of an Englishman.

~~~

All the same, skin was skin, and he was immensely grateful when Sherlock came back.

“Hello, John.”

Sherlock sniffed the air, detecting the aromas of a frustrated desire for sex and, more faintly, the smell of the now-cooled beef stew in the oven that had drifted into the room. A strange combination, he thought. There was the barely audible hum of the toy inside John and the sound of the man’s own huffed breathing through his nose as he continued to unquestioningly follow the lesson he’d been told to learn. Sherlock was pleased to note that in spite of the absence of any restraints John had not moved a muscle from the position he’d been placed in, although he had arched his back a little in frustrated need.

“That’s it, that’s the way” Sherlock crooned, “You’re getting better at that. Does it feel good?”

In spite of himself John felt his body react to the praise and to the hand stroking its way down his chest to his belly and back again. It was getting to be a habit, giving in to what Sherlock wanted. He never really got to say what he wanted any more, not about anything which he considered important. Right now he wanted to answer but couldn’t. How could he have responded, anyway, with any truth? He wanted to scream out his frustrated pleasure and make his dilemma known, all at once.

But there was no need. Sherlock already knew. It didn’t really take a genius to notice, it was pretty obvious to him. Now he was rolling John over onto his side, kneeling on the bed behind him. Sherlock slowly eased the toy out, silently grateful that it was still slick and there was no resistance which might have spoken of any problems, cataloguing the changes he could detect as it came free. John didn’t need to be stretched any further, he thought. He was still wet and definitely ready if the pleasing sensitivity of his slicked opening was anything to go by.

Sherlock smiled, pushing John onto his belly. He had known this would be worth the wait. Just a little bit longer he told himself. He wanted to do this correctly, for John as well as for himself. He stopped and moved to John’s head, taking off the gag, lifting John’s chin and allowing him to flex his jaw muscles and permit his saliva to wet his dry mouth, then reaching around to open John’s jaws further with surprisingly gentle fingers and to push his latest purchase in there instead, making sure it was laid comfortably on John’s tongue just far enough into his mouth without danger before buckling it behind his head.

It was a well-chosen penis gag designed to fill John’s mouth and provide him with a little entertainment at the same time.

John was startled. Where the hell had that come from? He frowned over at Sherlock’s coat hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Somewhere inside one of those generous pockets, probably, he thought.

“Suck on that, John,” Sherlock said in that voice he used when it was an order and John had no say in the matter. And when John obediently did as he was told he was startled to be gifted with a mouthful of cold, sticky semen. When the hell had Sherlock found the time to do that? Oh, God, he thought suddenly, not at Scotland Yard, surely?   Please, no. He shut his eyes against the image. He’d never be able to use those toilets again.

“Comfortable?” Sherlock asked knowingly, waiting as John figured it out. John was too busy sucking to answer, so Sherlock abruptly slapped his arse smartly, _smick-smack_ , one slap on each cheek. The sound of it was loud in the room. “I asked if it was comfortable, John.”

John nodded appreciatively even as he sucked on the toy. Had his mouth been free he would have asked where Sherlock had picked up such a device but right now it was impossible. Added to which, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer. He’d never been guided to take Sherlock’s offering in both ends at the same time before. The thought of it was hotter than hell, he decided, as he waited to savour both the taste currently in his mouth and the anticipated burn in the same split second.

Sherlock didn’t make him wait this time. He was still too high on his own triumphant cleverness. He shed the rest of his clothing quickly and efficiently before kneeling on the bed and swinging his leg over John’s torso, shuffling to find the entrance he was seeking, holding his own cock in one hand as he parted the familiar flesh and carefully but inexorably entered what he now regarded as his very own personal space.

Beneath him, John shivered with joy, feeling the sensations in every nerve of his body as the heavy flesh advanced, gently but inescapably. His eyes filled with astonished tears, his bones ached with his bottomless desire for this man and he started to pant through his nose in earnest, moaning softly before he suddenly gave a muffled cry of frustrated pleasure. For two endless years he had thought this possibility lost to him forever and in spite of the harsh breath in his ear it was still something he didn’t quite believe was really happening. He would do nothing to jeopardise it. Whatever Sherlock wanted, he would get.

~~~

By the sixth race at Aintree Mrs Tuner was getting slightly cross. She and Martha had placed several bets which had led to Mrs Hudson backing winners in every race they ventured to wager on. Mrs Turner had never seen anything like it. After her first two wins Martha had gone on to triumph by backing “Doctor’s Orders”, “Diogenes”, “Fusilier”, and “Deerstalker.” How was Martha doing this, she asked?

“Beginners’ luck,” Mrs Hudson smiled.

Mrs Turner bustled off to make some tea.

By the time she came back Martha was sitting in the armchair, smiling at the pad in her hand.

“Did you have an accumulator?” asked Mrs Turner.

“No,” said Martha, “but it’s a good idea for next time.”

Mrs Turner was going to point out a bit tartly that it was getting to be a bit late and Martha might want to go home before it got dark when there was the sudden cacophony of a stifled cry followed by a deep groan.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson said, looking at the dividing wall between the two flats. “I wonder what’s going on to cause a racket like that. I’m sorry, dear; I’ll tell them to keep it down in future. That’s not very neighbourly. Unless they’re having another fight or John’s had another of those nightmares and fallen out of bed. He might have knocked himself out. He’s so accident prone. And he’s always getting himself abducted by criminals and what-have-you; should we go and check to see if he’s alright? You know he still gets bad dreams even though Sherlock’s come back from…wherever he went. I can hear John walking around sometimes in the early hours. Or…”

Mrs Turner, it seemed, was a little worldlier than Mrs Hudson. She knew exactly what was going on upstairs. She couldn’t believe a woman could have lived the life that Martha had lived and still be something of an innocent.

“No,” she said, smirking a little at the picture in her head. “Do you remember Francois and Henri in Paris? And my boys, David and Edward? They’ve asked me to invite you to their anniversary party, by the way. The formal invitation’s in the post but with the way the post is around here you might not get it in time so I thought it best I say now.”

Mrs Hudson wasn’t really listening; she had cast her mind back to Paris where they had been exotic dancers together and taken Henri and Francois under their wings. Swans wings, they’d called them, huge great fluffy fans that covered most of their assets, made of lovely soft swans down. “Oh,” she said as the memories of Henri and Francois came back to her, smiling at each other in way that was becoming familiar again these days, trying to appear all nonchalant-woman-of- the-world and not taken aback at all but blushing all the same at the mental image Mrs Turner had conjured up as she left her biscuit in her cup too long and half of it dropped into her tea. “I’d love to come dear, tell them for me, would you?”

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs Turner distractedly, still letting her memory supply images, vivid pictures of what might be happening in the other flat.

~~~

Sherlock was multi-tasking. He was going over the case in his mind, slowly taking John apart, and gauging the faint reactions from next door with some amusement, all at the same time. Being inside John was the usual height of sensation. Not only the embrace of muscle and flesh but also the glorious sight of John still trying to obey orders and not move. Such a good soldier. There was less movement in John’s lower half where he managed to keep his legs in the prescribed position, open and immobile. He couldn’t have been trying to escape because as they both knew, that would be unlikely, not to say impossible. John, after all, was good at following instructions.

~~~

“You remember the time David put his back out doing the garden?” Mrs Turner said fondly. “Edward took care of him so well. Took all that time off work, made him soup and porridge, and rubbed that nasty stuff on his back until he was better. That’s real love.”

Mrs Hudson bristled a bit at that. Her boys were devoted to each other. “Well, John’s a doctor, you know,” she said proudly. “He took care of Sherlock not so long ago when he fell through that skylight. Stayed with him for days. He picked all the glass out of Sherlock’s behind with my eyebrow tweezers, where the poor boy broke his fall in the bushes and narrowly missed the crazy paving. John hardly left Sherlock’s bedroom.”

“I’m sure,” Mrs Turner said dryly.

 They weren’t really listening of course but all the same they heard a muffled groan of what might have been combined pain and pleasure and what might have been the faint sound of flesh on flesh. But they were both a little tipsy by then, so they couldn’t have sworn to it. Just as well they’d switched over to drinking tea, really.

 ~~

 In the last few minutes Sherlock had allowed John the small grace of having his mouth freed, now that he had swallowed all the contents of that wicked penis gag. Sherlock was pleased with the result of this particular experiment; he was going to use that particular distraction on John many times in the future.

 “Please, Sherlock.”

 “What are you asking for, John? You need to tell me.”

 “I want to come…please, Sherlock…” He didn’t add ‘you bastard’ but Sherlock heard it anyway. How a man could sound both pleading and demanding in the same breath Sherlock didn’t know, but it was one of the reasons why John Watson was probably going to keep his interest for many years to come. Perhaps even for the rest of his life.

 “Too soon, John.”

 “Too soon? It’s been hours!”

 Sherlock ran not-quite tender hands over John’s genitals, “You’re not in any danger, John. Your penis is that dark maroon colour, and your testicles are warm and hard and slightly greasy. You know that indicates desire on your part. You enjoy the sense of being denied, if your movements are any indication. And who am I to refuse you what you desire?” he twinkled.

John decided that what he desired right now was a) to come like a rocket and b) to punch Sherlock Holmes in the face. And in that moment he couldn’t decide which he wanted most. And that startled him because he hadn’t felt like that for a long time, certainly not since Sherlock had come back.

“Just a little while longer,” Sherlock said softly, turning John onto his belly and letting him be aware of the heavy feel of his reawakening cock as it slid relentlessly inside him again. “Look what you do to me, John.” He moved his hips to let John feel the hard flesh coming to life again inside him. “I’ll let you come this time,” he promised. “Eventually.”

“Eventually?” John whined.

“I just want to keep this memory for a while. Alright?” As if he didn’t already have numerous memories like this one in his Mind Palace already.

He made it sound so tender that all John’s frustration ebbed away.

“Alright,” he said softly, and capitulated.

As he always did.

~~~

The sounds from next door were dwindling down to nothing more than quiet murmurings, muffled by the wall between the two properties. But barely audible as they were, they were also impossible to interpret any other way.

Both of the landladies been married, both of them knew the sound of a man’s voice when he came.

So there was no mistaking the noises this time. A muffled cry of “John!” and an even more muffled cry of “Hrrlck!” penetrated the quiet in Mrs Turner’s flat, like that of a hand laid briefly over a face to hold back a sound which otherwise might have been loud and full of passion.

“Hrrlck?” They frowned as they looked briefly at one another, and away again as the penny dropped for both of them. Oh…

Again?

While they couldn’t possibly know what was actually going on, they both exhaled; both of them a bit turned on – ‘at their age!’ Martha thought - and a bit embarrassed to have heard all that, and, what was probably worse, to work out exactly what was happening to cause those noises.

“More sherry, dear,” Mrs Tuner said swiftly, as if they’d heard nothing at all, “or something a bit stronger?”

“Yes, please, sherry would be lovely,” Mrs Hudson said, starting to feel a bit flustered and actually wanting to ask for whisky. She tried to regain her composure. How would she ever face the boys again, knowing what she now knew?

They sipped their drinks in a prim, delicate silence, like old maiden ladies, trying not to keep listening out for more noises from 221b and certainly not trying to imagine what might be going on in there to match up to those noises.

~~~

In the other flat there was quiet at last. The last order had been given, the last instruction followed, and they were just Sherlock and John again. Well, apart from that wicked black ring, of course, John thought grumpily, fidgeting a little at the close feel of the thing. That was still in place as was Sherlock’s weight on him and the spent cock painting wet trails on his stomach whenever Sherlock moved.

He knew better than to ask Sherlock to free him from his leather prison. In the past, asking for relief of that sort had got him precisely nowhere. Sherlock would release it and think of something equally wicked to torment him with before he would deign to reward him, if he even felt like it. By now John was well used to being denied. It was part of what he loved, that letting go. He never let go so far as to completely forget what he was doing, though, mindful of his own well-being. If the leather was too tight or had been in place too long he’d make sure that Sherlock knew about it,

Sherlock lay there for a while, just letting time pass, regarding his doctor, licking idly at the sweat on his neck, giving himself a small respite from the heavy weight of responsibility laid on his shoulders by John’s irrational fear, all without letting John know, of course. He wasn’t going to leave and it was time John realised that. One day John would recover from the pain and anguish of having once lost him. He would realise that Sherlock had never left him behind at all, not in the way he thought, and they could have a real partnership again. Until then, he thought, there would be more of this, more capitulation from this new version of John, lying on his belly taking it up the arse. As a cure for the fear of losing someone it wasn’t a great solution, Sherlock thought, letting them fuck you. But this wasn’t something you talked to a therapist about. Ella would have kittens if she knew.

One day, Sherlock recognised, they would both be themselves again but in the meantime he owed it to John to give him what he wanted. Did John even know that things were that way ‘round? Evidently not from the way he was whining.

Time to be John’s Dominant again.

“That was almost as good as solving the mystery of the ‘Hounds of Baskerville’, as you so colourfully named them,” Sherlock panted. “You’re very skilled at being buggered, you know.” He bent his head to chew at John’s clavicle, admiring the puckered scar of the bullet wound in his shoulder. “You take it so thoroughly and you make such lovely noises, although I don’t imagine for a moment that the gag actually worked. They must have heard.”

John felt himself blush. “Then why…”

“John,” Sherlock chided, not as irritated as he might otherwise have been. It had been very relaxing, after all, being buried balls-deep in John’s arse. He could afford to let up a little. “Do I really need to spell everything out for you?” He sighed. “Very well. It suits me to use it on you and you do look very fetching in it, you know.”

“Oh.”

“Now, lie still and open your legs, please. You look tired. Please me this time and I’ll let you come.”

Tired and frustrated, John thought. But all the same, he reminded himself, Sherlock had come back to him and what could be wrong about that? He would spend the rest of his life like this if it would only mean that Sherlock would stay with him. He looked up into the face he had loved so long and shifted slightly to display his arse, then bent his knees to fold his legs so as not to inconvenience the man who was slowly sliding into him with a reawakened cock. Maybe this time his Dom would let him move his legs to wrap around the slim body he adored…

Oh, God, he thought suddenly. Sherlock was his Dom.

~~~

“Come again next week, Martha.” And Mrs Turner smiled a little cheekily at her own words and Mrs Hudson’s reaction to them, wondering how an undoubted woman of the world like Martha could still blush like a virgin at talk of such an intimate union between two people who so obviously loved each other.

Mrs Hudson didn’t rise to the bait, but she wished she could both tell the boys off for landing her in this embarrassing predicament and scold Mrs Turner for taking advantage of it.   Sometimes she wanted to shake all of them by the throat. “Thank you, I will. Will you pick up our winnings or shall I?” she added a little spitefully and smiled at Mrs Turner’s annoyance. “I’ll do it then. Tomorrow,” she said.

Now all that was left to do was return to her flat so quietly that the boys didn’t even hear her.

Sometimes, she thought, renting to tenants was a bit of a risk. She’d had some real nutcases in the flat upstairs over the years. But this was John and Sherlock. And they were far from just tenants. If she’d ever had children she’d have wanted them to be just like John and Sherlock.

Well, maybe not just like them, she amended, thinking of the life they’d led together since they got here, and the life they had yet to lead, but you couldn’t have everything.

End

 


End file.
